


The Chain

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, Porn With Plot, Shameless Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wall Sex, i'm so sorry brett hundley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 16:22:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Pinch hitting for Superbat Secret Santa 2017 with the lovely Momo <3Prompts were:1. Identity porn2. Unresolved sexual tension (that preferably gets resolved)3. Evil Superman fics are heavenI tried to hit on a little of all three. Happy Secret Santa, Bays!





	The Chain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BatShitCrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BatShitCrazy/gifts).



> There be smut ahead. I hope you enjoy, Bays! Happy (late) Secret Santa!
> 
> Thanks to Momo for holding my hand the whole time, and for the AMAZING art!!!

 “....and with that, I’d like to invite our star of the evening on to the stage. Everyone, please put your hands together for investigative journalist from the _Daily Planet,_ Clark Kent!”

The applause was deafening. In the crowded auditorium, it bounced off the walls, hammering his ears as he climbed the rickety stairs onto the stage.

He squinted as several lights turned towards him, tracking his movements as he headed for his chair. There was a bottle of Evian and a glass on the table next to it; he had a feeling he was going to need both.

“Clark,” the conference director, Ben, shook his hand vigorously, turning so they were both facing the audience. He dropped his hand, gesturing. “Please. Sit.”

The applause was beginning to die down. Clark sat in the chair, glancing out at the audience. He couldn’t recognize a single face.

“What an _exciting_ year for you,” Ben said, facing him in the opposite chair. His tone was conversational, pitched perfectly for the audience. He looked alarmingly at ease. “A Pulitzer nomination, a Peabody nomination--and I’m sure there’s more, but I can’t seem to remember them all.”

The audience laughed politely, right on cue. Clark smiled, shifting awkwardly in the chair.

“Yes, it’s been very...overwhelming.”

“Hopefully not _too_ overwhelming!” Ben winked at the audience, his expression sobering quickly. He folded his hands, leaning forward. “Well, Clark. Let’s talk about why we’re all here today: crime.”

The room hushed. Clark nodded, unsure if he was supposed to say something. “...crime.”

“Your series for the _Planet_ was historically unprecedented,” Ben spread his hands. “Nobody thought to look at the precursors for criminal activity the way you did. Can you talk a little bit about that?”

The audience was waiting. Clark wondered briefly if Lois had managed to get in after her last interview. He cleared his throat, hoping it wouldn’t make too much noise in the microphone.

“Well, Ben, the series really began with…”

* * *

The Q&A with Ben was done before he realized. It was only the loud applause that reminded him his slot was almost over. Ben waved at him to stand, smiling widely.

“Thank you. _Thank_ you.” the director said, quieting the audience. “Now, I know this is the part you’re all excited for--a chance to ask Mr. Kent here a few questions.”

Someone in the audience screamed. Clark felt a blush settle across his cheeks.

“You in the front,” Ben said, waving for a microphone to be sent over. “Yes?”

“Hi, Mr. Kent,” a woman in the front row said, her eyes wide. “My name is Jessica. I’m studying journalism at Metropolis U. I read everything you’ve done for the _Planet._ I was just wondering, do you have any tricks for writing when you’re stuck, or you can’t seem to get the words right?”

“Hi Jessica,” he said, smiling at her. “I think what works for me is taking a break. Sometimes you just have to let it sit for a while, and do something else while you clear your mind. Sometimes you might even find inspiration or a different angle when you’re out doing something.”

The audience clapped politely. Jessica sat down, nodding her thanks.

Ben squinted, pointing at someone in the middle row.

“You, in the suit.”

The microphone was taken by a slender hand. A handsome face appeared from the shadows, the house lights moving to cover him.

“Hi, Mr. Kent,” a smooth voice said. “Bruce Wayne. I’m a local businessman.”

The audience burst into laughter at the joke. Wayne kept an impeccably straight face, waiting patiently with the microphone.

“I know who you are, Mr. Wayne.” Clark said, grinning. “Your question…?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the billionaire said, raising the microphone. “Just like everyone else in this room, I’ve read much of your work. I had a few questions about the interview aspect of your investigation.”

“Sure.”

“First of all, how did you justify using a snowball sampling method for recruiting interview participants from Metropolis?” Wayne raised an eyebrow. “The interviewees you did end up using weren’t representative of many background afflicted by crime and poverty. Your story misses key backgrounds--like those in Gotham, for instance. Where the standards of living vary quite differently, as do the crime rates.”

The audience was silent, perhaps shocked that Wayne had strung enough three-syllable words together to make a coherent sentence. Clark cleared his throat again, fumbling for the words.

“Well, this isn’t social science, Mr. Wayne,” he said with a smile, getting a quick chuckle from the audience. “This is journalism. We can’t talk to everyone.”

“I understand that,” Wayne said, his eyes boring into him from the middle row. They were a startling shade of blue. “But your articles make broad, overarching claims about crime and its relationship with poverty. Shouldn’t your sample be more representative?”

His tone had slipped just a little beyond sugar sweet, something insinuated in his words. Clark felt a burst of defensiveness.

“I spoke to interviewees from Gotham.”

“You spoke to _two,_ ” Wayne said, recalling the number effortlessly. He smiled at the crowd, shrugging. “They were middle class, from the suburbs. Their path to crime was through prescription drugs--which, yes, _tragic,_ but not quite the same as growing up in the Narrows, am I right?”

There was a ripple of sound through the auditorium, half uneasy, half agreeing. Clark narrowed his eyes.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Mr. Wayne.”

“Mr. Kent, I wouldn’t _dare_ ,” Wayne said, getting a quick laugh from the audience as he put on a horrified expression. “I’m simply suggesting a direction for future research. After all, if anyone should be worrying about crime, it’s Gotham, isn’t it?”

Clark inclined his head, accepting the point.

“Then again,” Wayne said, as if reconsidering, “Superman hasn’t exactly been a shining example of how Metropolis should address generational poverty and criminal activity either, if I’m being frank.”

The audience went quiet. Clark tilted his head, shocked at the bluntness of the billionaire’s statement.

“Superman has done more for this city than you think,” he said into the microphone when he could speak again, seething. “I’m not sure I follow your point, Mr. Wayne.”

The billionaire smiled, unrattled by his change in tone. “Not every problem can be solved by super-powered fist fights, Mr. Kent.”

“Or by excessive donations,” Clark said, getting a _whoaaa_ from the audience as he leaned in. “Mr. _Wayne_ ,” he said, intentionally emphasizing the surname.  

“Indeed.” Wayne said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Thank you.”

The billionaire winked and sat, somehow deflecting the insult. He handed off the microphone as the audience burst into impromptu applause. Cameras flashed, trying to capture Gotham’s prince before he disappeared into the crowd again.

Clark felt his face heat up, anger surging through his veins.

 _Who the hell does Wayne think he is?_ Clark thought viciously. _Last week he couldn’t even remember Puerto Rico was a territory. I bet he couldn’t even place it on a_ map _\--_

The microphone was handed to someone else.

“Hi! My name is Sarah--”

The anger was still buzzing in his ears. He couldn’t shake the feeling of Wayne’s blue eyes on him, searing through every counterpoint and counter argument with effortless bravado.

When he looked up, Wayne was watching him from his seat, a smug expression on his face. His legs were crossed, hands folded across his knees. One finger was tapping against pressed dress slacks, like the man was bored.

Clark  _hated_ him.

“Mr. Kent?”

He blinked, realizing he’d ignored the last thirty seconds of the panel.

“Hi Sarah,” he said, plastering a smile on his face. “Could you repeat the question?”

* * *

 “I mean, the man can’t even tie his _shoes,_ and he’s up there asking you about goddamned representative samples?”

Clark opened the car door for Lois, handing the taxi driver a nice tip. “Keep the change.” he murmured.

“And, on _top_ of that, he has the nerve to ask you about _Superman’s_ contributions to crime fighting? Is he on _drugs_?”

Lois pushed the restaurant door open, heading straight for the bar. She pulled his stool out, her expression still furious.

“You should be suing him,” she said, “Ruining a conference keynote like that. The _nerve_.”

“I’m putting it behind me.” Clark said, shrugging. It was a bald-faced lie, and he suspected Lois knew it. “I don’t care if Wayne doesn’t like my samples.”

Lois snorted. Clark frowned.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

Lois’ eyes held a sliver of mischief. She leaned in, raising an eyebrow. “You seemed to care an awful lot once he started criticizing Superman.”

Clark rolled his eyes. “He was clearly wrong.”

“He was trying to get a rise out of you,” Lois patted his cheek, startling him. She smiled. “And I think it worked.”

“Whatever.”

The rest of the evening was devoted to _Planet_ gossip and a little bit of source trading. Around eleven, Lois ditched him at the bar, chasing down a lead halfway across town. In her absence, the anger from earlier returned, curling in his stomach.

Some NFL game was blaring on the TV, but save for a few locals, the bar was almost empty. Christmas lights twinkled in the corner, covered in years of dust. He nursed his beer, debating if he should get another one.

“Is this seat taken?”

He turned towards the voice. Bruce Wayne was at his elbow, dressed in a dark cashmere sweater and slacks. He was pointing at the adjacent stool.

“Sit wherever you’d like,” Clark muttered, turning back to the NFL game. Despite little interest, he watched the screen pointedly, ignoring Wayne as he climbed onto the stool next to him.

“Football,” Wayne said conversationally, flagging down the bartender from the other end of the bar. “ _Fascinating._ I didn’t have you pegged as a Packers fan.”

“Go Pack.” Clark said, hoping he’d go away. Wayne snorted.

“They really haven’t been playing well since Rodgers broke his collarbone. Am I right? Hundley just hasn’t been cutting it. No way they make the playoffs now.”

Clark finally turned to face him, relaxing his grip around the beer bottle.

“Can I help you with something, Mr. Wayne?”

“Bruce,” Wayne said, staring at him intently. “Call me Bruce. None of that _Mr. Wayne_ business.”

“So this isn’t about business.” Clark surmised, watching as the bartender delivered something on the rocks to the billionaire, unprompted. “Why are you here?”

“I figured we could continue our conversation from earlier.” Wayne took a sip of his drink, watching him over the rim. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather drink alone.”

Wayne made a face. “Really?”

“Really.”

Clark ordered another beer, ignoring him. On the screen, one of the yellow players went down hard, prompting a series of instant replays. The bar went quiet.

“Your articles really were quite good.”

Wayne was still watching the television when he turned, his lips pursed as the referees threw another yellow flag across the screen.

“Thanks?”

“You just need to broaden your horizons a little,” Wayne said, flashing him a smile that suggested every inch of that innuendo. “People in Metropolis have been talking down to Gotham for decades. Why not break the mold a little, and let us talk to you for once?”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Clark said. “Happy?”

Wayne leaned closer. His eyes were darker in person, a muted grey under the bar lights. “You’re angry with me.”

Clark snorted, turning away. He worried at the label on his bottle, making Wayne’s point for him. “Yeah, I kinda am.”

“But you’re too polite to say anything.” Wayne was suddenly _close,_ but he hadn’t heard his stool move. He smelled like expensive cologne, and the perfect amount of it. “Aren’t you?”

Suddenly, the anger from this morning--the stupid, petulant anger--was back. He clenched his fist on the table, releasing the bottle before it could break into a million pieces across the bar top.

“Why don’t you just leave me alone,” he said between gritted teeth, “And we’ll call it even?”

Wayne snorted. He propped an elbow on the bar. “There’s a little bit of that fire. Farmboy Kansas schtick only lasts so long, huh?”

Clark returned his gaze, something thrumming under his skin. “So you read my Wikipedia page. Gold star.”

“It _was_ a lot of words,” Wayne admitted. The billionaire’s eyes traveled up and down his legs. “Worth it, though.”

Clark shook his head, caught in disbelief. He covered it with another drag on his beer. He was keenly aware of the way Wayne was watching his throat. Of the way his lips were just a little swollen---

The bar erupted as one of the players ran in a touchdown, arms flying into the air. Whistling and cheers filled the room, drowning out whatever he’d been about to say.

Wayne threw a twenty on the bar, standing. He adjusted his cuffs, sending Clark a look over his shoulder. Without another word, he headed for the back exit, pushing into the alley.

Clark exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes.

 _Fuck,_ he thought, _I’m really about to do this._

* * *

Wayne was perched in the shadows, one polished shoe kicked up against the alley wall. He grinned when he saw Clark, spreading his legs a little.

“How about th-”

Clark grabbed him by the collar, shoving him against the brick with more force than was necessary. Wayne cut off with a surprised noise, his face pressed to the wall.

“Shut up.” Clark said in his ear. “ _Now_.”

Wayne shut up, shivering a little in his hold. Clark uncurled his hand from the collar, twisting it in his hair. He pulled Wayne back towards him, pressing their bodies together.

The billionaire let out a tiny gasp as Clark ground down against him, an almost imperceptible exhale against the thudding of his heart. He could feel the heat of Wayne’s skin through the fabric of his clothes, almost like a brand against his hands.

He grabbed Wayne’s shoulders, turning him around, shoving him back against the brick before he could react. Blue eyes burned into his, undeterred. There was a challenge there, but Wayne remained silent, following his order.

It was too easy to take Wayne’s jaw in his hand, pressing their lips together. They kissed intensely, almost violently, a hint of teeth and bruising pressure taking over his senses.

Wayne’s hands fumbled at his belt, tugging desperately. He cut off the kiss with a gasp, pulling Clark’s pants open. Wide eyes met his, waiting for permission. He was breathing heavily; so was Clark.

The pause lengthened. Some strange energy was surging between them, something intense and nameless Clark couldn’t even begin to describe. He grabbed Wayne’s hips without thinking, hefting him up against the wall and slamming their lips together.

Wayne moaned as Clark ground their hips together, muffled into the kiss. The billionaire’s hands scrabbled at his back, searching for something to hold on to.

He got a hand on Wayne’s zipper and tugged, surprised when the entire seam ripped apart in his fingers. The billionaire didn’t seem to notice, letting out a shuddering sigh as Clark pushed a hand into his underwear, wrapping a hand around his dick, pumping it once, twice.

He pushed Wayne higher up the wall, changing the angle. The billionaire demonstrated a remarkable flexibility, wrapping his legs behind Clark’s back as they kissed again.

A hand grabbed his wrist, tugging it towards Wayne’s pocket. There was a slim bottle sticking out of the top; he grabbed it, smirking a little into the kiss.

“Prepared,” he murmured, pulling it free. Wayne grinned up at him, his lips slightly swollen. Clark felt a burst of irritation at the expression, followed by a wave of lust. He grabbed Wayne by the collar, flipping him to face the wall again.

The rest of Wayne’s pants were easily torn away. His mind was a heated mess of need, overlaid by a current of tension. He slicked his fingers up, nearly dropping the bottle as he pulled down Wayne’s underwear with his other hand.

The billionaire groaned against the wall as he slid the first finger in, rocking back against him, pushing it deeper inside. Clark reached a hand around to his dick, squeezing it at the base. The noise Wayne made was the most indecent thing he had ever heard.

They worked up slowly to three fingers, Wayne panting and rocking back against him as he was stretched impossibly wide, making tiny gasps against the wall that burned in Clark’s ears. Finally, he grabbed for the condom he’d slipped from his wallet into his pocket, ripping the foil with his teeth.

Wayne let out a muffled cry as he finally pushed inside him. He went impossibly still, eyes clenched shut. Clark let his head fall forward, pressed into the crook of Wayne’s neck as he was enveloped in heat and pressure, almost losing focus for a moment.

He began thrusting upwards slowly, almost lazily, a hand still wrapped around Wayne’s cock. The billionaire let out a gasp with every thrust, a surprised little sound tinged with pleasure. His hands drifted to Clark’s hips, urging him to move faster.

He could tell Wayne was close already. Lost in the mindless pleasure, he wasn’t far behind. He pushed in faster, gratified as Wayne’s gasps became louder, edging on shouting.

The billionaire came against the wall, shuddering in his grasp. With a surprised groan, Clark came a moment later, breathing quickly through the orgasm, shocked.

They stood there for a while, still pressed against each other. Wayne’s heartbeat slowed, his breathing returning to normal intervals. He slid off Clark’s hips, stumbling a little as he steadied himself against the wall.

“That was...fun,” Wayne said, gathering the remains of his pants from the alley floor with a slight frown. The expression was strangely familiar, out of place on the other man’s face. “Let’s, uh, do it again sometime.”

Clark opened his mouth to protest, but the billionaire had already pushed back into the bar, disappearing into the shadows. He felt himself flush, the anger from earlier still burning hot in his stomach.

_Right._

**Author's Note:**

> Leave me a comment, and let me know what you thought!


End file.
